The Water
by grace123489
Summary: Mags Kolp was twelve when the Dark Days officially ended. But for her? They had only just begun.
1. Chapter 1 Prologue

They came in waves. Surges of white white white and it was all so wrong.

Red splattered the land, murdering the innocence of the pure, sending some into depression, others blood thirsty as the desire for revenge coursed through veins.

It didn't matter in the end. Those who died, died. As for those who lived, the results were varied.

Sure, your body's moving, talking, walking; but that doesn't mean your soul's functioning. After all, your body is just that; a body. It could have been born to another, but what resides within it - your personality, traits, your soul - that is you. Few retained their true selves during the Dark Days, eyes still holding the truth, sans the glassy tinge of lost hope. I was one of those people. Or so I tell myself. It is easier to think of myself that way opposed to the alternative.

9.00 am …

9.01 am ...

9.02 am ...

And one minute more.

And one more.

And fifty more.

It's a new regime introduced by the President.

and one more

Rumoured to be annual.

and one more

And all because of our rebelling and the Dark Days.

It's to remember, they say.

and three more

Well, no one's going to forget the death of 23 innocent children, are they?

and one more minute.

10.00 am

The bell tolls.

It's time for the reaping.


	2. Chapter 2

We have time.

We have seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and decades.

And just like that, I can explain the duration of a particular event in a matter of eight words.

Sometimes, I wonder what the world would be like if it were all that easy. If eight words, from seconds to decade, could describe what the Dark Days were. You may say you are allowed eight words, but the Dark Days were subjective, and hence, you may end up with millions of voices. Those kids over in Thirteen, sitting up in heaven singing their shouldacouldawoulda's, they'll tell you that the Dark Days were 'The protestation and subsequent failure and fatal persecution.'

It was.

Those kids up in Districts One and Two, they'll tell you it was 'a grievous battle of mistake, misunderstanding and redundancy'.

And even that was true, in some aspects. Because although on the posterior, those Districts are damn suck ups, they are just doing what all of us are – trying to stay alive.

And then theres the kids in the Capitol. For them, it was 'a time of war in favour of protection.'

To their puny little brains that flourish on falsehoods and lies, it was.

But me?

I don't think I can put the Dark Days into eight words.

I was four when they started. I had a mamma, a dad, a gran and a gramps, as well as a whole fleet of aunts and uncles and cousins. I had people to fawn over me and I had people to love me.

I was twelve when they ended. My mamma had died, thank you Capitol deployed bomb. My papa had died, thank you peacekeeper for that KIA notice. Gran had died, thank you terror, gramps died, thank you broken heart. My fleet of family dwindled. Bomb, gun, grenade, blood, war, stupidity, terror, fear. When they finished, I was sent to the overflowing orphanage, where no one would fawn over you and no one loved you. Where breakfast was a quarter of cold fish and dinner was half a warm fish. Raw. Where dormitories of sixty plus stunk off piss and loneliness as screams were muffled in the darkness of night, lest matron come in and give you a beating for disturbing her beauty sleep. Where some girls turned to the higher up of the social ladder for a few pennies, and the boys snuck onto the 5am to 7pm fishing trawlers in the hope of getting something better.

199 words.

It still doesn't seem enough.

...

Matron stands in front of the line, barking orders and rallying names of her roll as one would do in the army. Tough as nails, Matron is. I reckon that if she had balls, and I kicked em', she wouldn't flinch. I've been in the orphanage a total of eight years now, since I was four, and until recently, when I was unfortunate enough to walk into Matron stark naked in the showers after hours, I fully believed that as such may have been possible.

"Cindy!"

"... Yeah."

"And Marcus!"

"... Yep."

"Okay, that's the thirteen year olds done, twelves! Lucy?"

"... Present!"

Matron had this way of speaking that was a mix between barking and yelling. Not barking in the sense as to describe her tone, but literal barking, as a dog may. Couple that with her hapless mannerism of intermittently scratching her legs with her feet, Matron was affectionately known towards the elder population of the orphanage as the bitch.

And by me of course.

Though I couldn't be classified as the 'elder population' of the orphanage, I was still considered a kind of a 'wonder-kid', credit to Matron's immense dislike of me, and was thus

privy to a number of their jokes. See, I was one of the first to enter the orphanage as a product of the Dark Days. Four years old with no one. I was skin and bones, smothered in rags and with a snuffly nose that beckoned every sketchy character to come take advantage of me. So I grew up quick. Became acquainted with the loyal friend of sarcasm quite well, and somewhat flourished.

"Lily?"

"... Yeah."

"Suzanne!"

"... Yep."

"Terence?"

"... Here."

"And, finally, Mags!"

The way she says my name sounds like she stepped in dog crap. Maybe stepped into it and inadvertently sent it flying to the heavens, only for it's ascension to be disrupted by her glorious bosom and amazingly fat face. That's the kind of bond me and Matron had going.

"... Yup Matron."

She eyes me in disgust, taking into account my attire. I had chosen a classic vintage look for my unlikely death bed; a thinning top that may or may not walk off my torso, credit to the immense quantities of salt that are determined to abide within it's fabric, and shorts which seam had decided to gift me with a wedgie traversing towards my intestine via my rectum. To cap of the look, my cozzies, which were still wet, had produced a fantastic wet bum look that emulated what one would look like if they were to wet themselves.

There were the kids who were the pride and joy of Matron, and then there was me.

"Okay kids, good luck. Now move!"

We split into two groups; the suckers – twelve to eighteen year olds, and the soon-to-be-suckers – eleven and under. In an orderly fashion we began to walk towards the square in two lines, Matron watching us as we did so.

I think that Matron was, in some twisted way, glad of the reaping today. There was the possibility that her meal portions could increase by two, and that the sympathetic yet stupid souls of the town would visit bearing gifts of fish casseroles and bread. Furthermore, the reaping would provide positive publicity for the orphanage, (if we were well behaved) which would result in money. And if, pray tell, one of us was reaped and actually made it far enough in the games, many may look kindly upon the orphanage for raising such a figure, which equals food and cash.

Matron gave me the stink eye as I passed. Obviously I had already upset her plan.

The whole town square is filled with an anxious ambience, and all I want to do is scream at everyone for being such damn pansies.

But I get where their coming from.

Soldiers flank the footpaths, holding loudspeakers to direct the public. They're called peacekeepers, a strategy meant to enforce peace, yet those guns dangling from their arms don't look too peaceful. Hell, the Peacekeepers weren't skipping around giving out rainbow lollipops when peace was really needed; they were plucking off people like christmas turkeys. Hence, the hesitance and apprehension that accompanies the anxiousness.

But me? I'm not all that nervous.

The generation going through this process was approximately around the emergence of the concept of the Dark Days, when every man and his dog thought; 'Hey, I need someone to continue my legacy. Oh, you're a woman, let's go and make a baby.' Although as such may not have proceeded in such a fashion, I can confidentially say that at the time of my birth parents were going nuts. So my name is one in hundreds. And as that creepy old guys said on the television; "May the odds be ever in your favour."

The line slowly eases forward as, one by one, as each child is allowed into the roped off area. At the front of the line, two peacekeepers sit.

"Name and age." The ladies voice is brash as she yanks my hand down to the table.

"Mags Kolp, 12," I reply. With skilled precision, the pair take my blood sample.

"There's no Mags Kolp here," She says as she pores over a small electronic device. "If you don't cooperate we have been told to enter your name again in the reaping."

I sighed. Seemed that the Capitol always had to have the last say, whatever the topic.

"Margaret," I huff.

"You may go" They say, before moving onto the next child.

Well that's lovely. The representatives of the Capitol's last words of wisdom and luck are; "You may go." Overly affectionate bunch they are, over at the Capitol.

I reach the twelve year old girl section as cautious smiles telling tales of great trepidation flutter over each face. Everyone is dressed up in their best dress', as if to make an impression when they're reaped. I mentally grimace thinking of my own attire. The seam of my short had definitely progressed in it's journey in spite of my insistent tugging, and my cozzies had now not only given me a wet bum, but also let rivulets of water run down my legs.

I was planning on making a beeline to the sea when this was done; the waves were perfect, the sun was out, and earlier I found a small section of reef that I previously hadn't snorkelled.

A high pitched squeal emitted from the microphone situated on the platform, interrupting my thoughts as a boisterous woman toddled up to the stage.

"He-llooo District 4!"

Silence.

"I am Coa Linth, your district escort!" Her voice has a strange lilt, distinct to the capitol, and she uses her hands to talk as much as she does her voice. Her skin is abnormally pale, as if dyed white, further exemplified by her neon orange lipstick and eyeshadow. Her hair is cropped short, a blood red, matching her outfit of sun-like colours. The overall effect is not that of beauty, but an inexplicable urge to check the poor lady into a mental hospital. I don't like her.

For at least twenty minutes, she prattles on about the dark days, district thirteen's obliteration and how the capitol is so good. So good, in fact, that to make sure the district's know this, they're going to kill their children. Yet, because of their kindness, they'll let one live and shower them with gifts. Great.

Everyone's name is supposedly entered in once, however as the games progress, each child will have an entry according to their age, meaning that next year, everyone will have two entries with the exception of the twelves, etcetera. There's also a volunteer system, which Coa explains, however I highly doubt that anyone with a level head is going to do as such.

"So," Coa continues, "Let us now pick our humble tributes. And remember, May the odds be _ever_ in your favour."

She wanders over to the big glass balls before plunging her hand into the many white slips, twirling her hand around as if to tantalise us. I see the faces of the girls in my section pale, and I wish mine would too, but it doesn't. I'm not scared. With a flourish, she pulls out a slip and totters back to the microphone, the irregular click clack of her heels matching the pounding heart beats of a district.

"Margaret Kolp," she drawls.

…

Damn.

...

Everyone sort of backs away from me as though I have contracted a plague, sweet relief brimming in their eyes, poorly disguised by fake pity. I begin to walk to the podium, head held high and shoulders thrown back as the crowd murmurs and mumbles, probably about the unfairness of a twelve year old being picked. I doesn't matter though. An eighteen year old girl could have been picked and it still would've been unfair. There's nothing fair about human sacrifice. I imagine Matron, secretly rejoicing of my selection whilst forcing expressions of distress. It almost makes me grin. Almost.

Coa beckons me.

"Margaret, congratulations!" she coos. I can see her scrutinising me, taking in my stick thin legs, washboard chest and attire. Impressions count, apparently. I bear my teeth in a sort-of snarl. Impression my ass.

"How old are you, Margaret?"

"Twelve," I say, monotone, "And the name's Mags, unless you want a fishing spear through your eye." Coa takes a step back as a few chuckles arise from the crowd. I don't like the name Margaret; it sounds like an old woman whose draped in moth-eaten shawls and hobbling along. And such is my vehement dislike that the entirety of the District knowns of it.

"A-alrighty then," Coa says, flustered, "Onto the male tribute."

Coa begins to teeter over to the bowls again, leaving me standing alone, lights flashing in my face, both the lens' of the district and camera's examining me. My breath suddenly gets caught in the back of my throat, as if there is something materialistic blocking it. An overwhelming need to hyperventilate claws at me as my knees begin to tremor, undetectable at the present moment yet gradually worsening so that is shall be obvious in the following minutes.

I am a tribute.

And despite my previous mantras and assurances that I am unafraid;

I am going to die.

With more speed, Coa picks a slip and speaks into the microphone;

"Otto Trawp."

A hulking figure emerges from the eighteen section. Broad shoulders, bulging biceps. And triceps, quadriceps, hamstrings, gastrocnemius', and just about every other muscle in the human body.

I am no longer just destructible. I am a twig.

Otto Trawp sidles down the aisle and onto the platform, a smug smile dominating his features, as though he was actually happy.

Otto is at least two times my height.

And four times my width.

Coa goes through her propaganda with Otto, asking the necessary questions. He is eighteen, happy to represent our district in the games and ready to succeed. I look out into the sea of people again, expecting to have all attention diverted, yet surprisingly, some cameras and eyes still linger on me.

And the gift of realisation graces me.

They want to see my reaction. They want to know if I'm a wimp of a child, likely to be killed immediately. They want to know if I am intimidated by Otto.

Which, clearly, I am.

In the reflection of a nearby camera, my face is contorted in an expression of obvious fear, and it looks as though I have wet myself. With hesitance, I glance down at my legs to see the few remaining rivulets of sea water from my still-wet cozzies run down my leg.

Fantastic.

But I couldn't let the public view me as weak, couldn't let my competitors prey on me before I even stepped foot in the arena. So I squared my shoulders like I did when I was first called. Threw back my head; giving the crowd free access to the viewing of my emotional state.

I was impassive. I was resolute.

I was unstoppable.

No.

With an air of confidence, I deliberately looked over to Otto and surveyed him, exaggerating my movements so that they would be obvious on camera. And I allowed a smile to bloom. One brimming with cockiness and arrogance, one of self-assurance and belief; all directed to Otto. I faced the crowd again, smile still plastered, yet subtly softer.

Now.

Now, I was invincible.

...

My momentary spectacle was broken when Coa motioned for us to shake hands, both her and Otto unaware of my display prior. With a massive smirk, Otto gripped my hand tightly and threatened the existence of my veins, before letting go. The new anthem of Panem played as District Four got their final look at us, and us at them.

But I was looking over.

At the ocean and sand and the islands. The green and the blue and the millions of shades that were sheltered in between, choosing only to emerge at certain times of the day. Creatures of the sea that floated and darted and splashed and frolicked. I would see it no more. And all I could feel was a sense of emptiness; that I wasn't exceedingly depressed or sad that I was going to die. I was scared, afraid of the inevitable pain and subsequent death; but I wasn't sad. I wasn't mourning the loss of family or friends, because I didn't have any. My life was lilliputian, a being easily disposed of. And the district was like me; give the sea and sand to time and nature and it survived, through struggles and triumphs. Give the sea and sand to humanity, and slowly it dwindled; died, remnants of salt or dust the only indications of what once was.

And that's all I would be.

For humanity had turned on me.

And I was powerless.

...

In the Justice building, the peacekeeper motioned for us to stay in the lobby whilst he checked on the rooms where we were to say our farewells. The room was newly built and lacking the customary smell of salt and the copious amounts of sand that were a given in the district.

I didn't like it.

Taking advantage of the momentary solitude, Otto grinned slyly, his face a pretentious ass, already certain of victory. It annoyed me. So I told him as such, watching as the grin faded. Slightly.

"A pretentious ass that's gonna win," he said.

That annoyed me even more.

"You know what?" I said as the footsteps of the returning peacekeeper became apparent. In one swift action, I brought my knee up to his groin, much like I had imagined doing to Matron countless times if she were of the opposite gender. The peacekeeper reentered, a confused expression on his face at the situation; me smiling sweetly and Otto hunched over, cursing softly with an extended finger waving in my direction. With a shake of the head, the Peacekeeper directed us to our separate rooms.

The room I am assigned in the justice building is beyond comparable. Swaths of velvet coloured deep purples and emeralds cover the floor and furnishings, with the room wall papered in rich reds, cornices tipped with gold.

I hate the damn Capitol.

With a sophisticated air of grace that has somewhat lacked throughout my short life, I jump onto couch and adjust the pillows accordingly. Each visitor supposedly gets five minutes, with the maximum amount of visitors overall being six. So, I have half an hour to rest on a couch that is, most likely, a seat which has not felt the warmth of a human buttock in too many months. I plan to comfort it in it's misery. I allow my eyelids to droop, for sleep to drag my into its reverie of darkness, when the door creaks. I turn my head sharply, eyes narrowed in a practiced glare to ward off the intruder. I wasn't expecting guests. I guess that my unique charisma isn't what my fellow twelve year olds are accustomed to. You could say I have a few admirers, kids who laugh when I show Matron up, but no one of consequence who could be bothered to give me a send off.

So, understandably, I was a little surprised when Miranda Trawp walked into the room.

Otto's sister.

"Hi." My hesitance was blatant, but Miranda's presence warranted as such, what with her enormously large shoulders and solid build. She was like a female Hercules on steroids.

"Hi." she replied, before sinking down into the couch next to me, an action that I definitely wasn't expecting. And then the flood gates open.

"You, you – you know? You have have … to help h-h-him!" she wailed.

"Uhh."

"No you have to! You have to p-pleeeaase!" Her pitched varied greatly, hence her speech sounding similar to that of a blue whale's. "He... he... he, he is the ooonly one who can ccoook mmeee my special fii..ssh fin- fingers! And you know? I .. I .. He's a great brother."

I grimaced in disgust as a rather large snot bubble bloomed from her nose. The human body was amazing.

"Alright," I said with a pat on the shoulder, more in consolidation than agreement.

And with that she left, a blubbering mess of tears and hair and tears and makeup and tears.

...

Almost as soon as Miranda had exited, the door opened once again. At first, all I could see was a pudgy hand. And all I could think was; oh no. For I was no in any way prepared for the whole of the Trawp family. Instead, the chubby hand extends to an arm that is cloaked in black, despite the climate. And surprisingly, this gets me unstuck. Cos for all the hell I've caused her, and all the crap I fire away about her, she was the closest thing to a mother that I had had in the past years, taking care of me when no one else would. Good ol' Matron. The door squeals against the pane as it bumps against the wall, Matron bustling into the room as though it were her kitchen. And if anyone in District Four knew anything about Matron, it was that the kitchen of the orphanage was hers and hers alone, everyone else be damned. I smiled as she collapsed onto the seat next to me, huffing loudly and fanning herself with her hand whilst looking to the heavens as if to plead with whoever abided up there to spare her the likely fate of spontaneous combustion. She looked at me with her red face.

"What'd you doin' getting reaped like that Miss Mags? Huh? You got any idea what I went through to get up those steps? My booty hasn't done that much since Mister Billy asked me to dance! You have any idea how long Mister Billy been swimming with those fishes?"

She released a low guttural sigh, if a sigh could be classed as such, as if her tirade was just as exhausting as the exercise she had done. But then she smiled. A watery smile that, on any other day, would send me screaming around the district because yes, yes, yes! I have seen Matron cry.

But today was not that day.

"You know Miss Mags?" Matron began, "I love you. In some kind of twisted way. And I don't know how you do it, for all the fish guts and crab claws I've cleaned up, because you've still wormed your way into my heart. Even if it is in the very deepest corner that never sees daylight."

I sniffled and smiled, again. Because this wasn't a sad moment. It was one of happiness.

"Love you to Matron."

"You gonna smash em' Miss Mags."

I looked at her in surprise, but she only nodded in affirmation and beckoned me towards her now outstretched arms. And I hugged Matron. She smelt of body odour, that cheap beer from the pub down the road and a hint of peppermint, but she was Matron, and in that moment I felt the safest I had in years, enveloped in her bosom which was capable in engulfing the circumference of my head entirely. She squeezed me hard for a second, and in that time I disappeared into one of her fat folds, before letting me go.

"I'm not kidding Miss Mags. I've been at that orphanage through thick and thin, and never have I had a kid like you who could sass me and still get away with it. If anyone could win these cruel tournament it would be you. Think girl, think. Cos that piece of meat in the other room aint' got nothin' on you when it comes to brains. And you think he could beat you in swimmin', or skill, or runnin'? When that deranged kids coming at ya with a knife, just think of me. Heavens, I've never seen no kid like you run when I come down with the bellows."

The peacekeeper knocked on the door, a loud rap that spoke of authority and finality.

"Don't worry, Matron," I said, "I'm coming back."

She grinned as the peacekeeper came into the room and began to drag her out, notably with some effort.

"I have to! Someone's gotta pass on your the hidden location of your favourite pantyhose! Can't have you finding them and running rampant, can we?"

And that's the last I ever saw of Matron. Her abnormally large bosom and her eyes that conveyed more than words ever could. They said 'You devil, you little rascal.' They said 'Oh, that's where they went.' They said 'Thank goodness she's gone.' They said 'I'm going to miss her.' And they said something very special too, and oddly enough it was only seeing it in her eyes that such statements actually felt true, in spite of her voicing them only moments ago. They said 'Best of luck.' They said 'I'll see you later'. They said 'I love you.'

...

Matron's eye's lingered in my memory as the Peacekeepers ushered us out of the justice building and to the train station. They weren't even that nice. Just brown orbs that resembled crap floating in the sewerage water that was the pupil. But what I remembered was the definiteness in them, how when she said, "You gonna smash em' Miss Mags" she was confidant and she was sure.

It was nice to have one's such faith.


	3. Chapter 3

Upon boarding the train, I was greeted by a similar layout to the Justice buildings with more extravagance; rich reds and golds and emeralds and purples, an abundance of crystal and shiny pearls, polished woods and stainless steels. I walked through the carriage, slowly, as if such a pace would allow me to both savour or comprehend the luxury to a further extent. Although extremely cliché, stepping into such a room felt like stepping into a dream, everything a cruel mirage that covered the monotony of the district. I placed my hand on one of the furnishings, admiring the smooth texture, only to be disrupted.

"Miss Kolp! What do you think you are doing Miss?"

I turned around to the entry of the carriage where Coa was standing, her appearance even more garish at the close distance.

"Uh, touching the table?"

"Well that will not do Margaret! Not do! Now get your hands off it!"

I obliged, yet deep down I felt sick. I knew why I couldn't touch the table. If I had been born to the Capitol, had pink hair, or maybe even green skin, I would've been able to touch that table. Power is a bitch.

"Sorry, Linthy," I said.

"Marrrggaaarret! Such behaviour is disrespectful and demeaning!"

This lady was big on her alliteration.

"I demand that you pay me more respect! Either Miss Linth, or at minimum, Coa."

She sounded like Matron, only Matron could pull of the whole I'm-the-power-you're-my-subject thing whereas the character was just plain pitiful when attempted by Coa. She needed more meat on her bones, and a voice that rivalled a male rather than a squirrel's.

"Margaret? Is that understood."

At that moment, it was if I had stepped out of my body. Became one of those Capitol people who come around and do evaluation things for school buildings and such. But I evaluated my short experience of the day. It had been filled with second guess' and smiles and sadness and disbelief, yet all the while, I had somewhat accepted it. Accepted that the Capitol had stormed into my live and decided I were to die. And I was tired. Tired of being the puny little twelve year old I was, and tired of being told what to do and where to be and what to say.

So I stopped.

"Where's the weapons carriage?" I asked.

"What?" Coa was confused, to say the least.

"I need that fishing spear."

And I smiled. A smile not for the benefit of others, not because I was sad, not because I was trying to look happy, but because I was a twelve year old girl who had accepted she was going to die, yet hadn't accepted to conform to another practice or person because of it.

...

The journey that night is quiet. Dinner is filled with the clanking of cutlery and plates, Coa eyeing me in both anger and fear, and Otto eyeing Coa in both suspicion and yearning. Coa was keen to have her revenge, and Otto was keen on getting Coa to spill her strategies for the game. Me? I was eyeing my dinner in both awe and wonder. I was keen to demolish as many plates as possible. Afterwards, we all migrated to another carriage where we watched a recap of the reaping. Coa talked animately, commenting on size, shape and probable skill whilst Otto inhaled the advice as he would inhale a plate of food. I didn't like how Otto nodded along with everything Coa said.

Because neither acknowledged the fact that they were human beings with feelings and families and fears. Instead they were meat. They were competition. They were to be annihilated. One of the few things I took away from the recap was that I was the smallest in comparison to the girls by at lest eight thigh sizes and nine arm sizes. Unfortunately, such a figure tripled in comparison to the males.

Coa soon dismissed us. And so I wound my way through the carriages. Past kitchens and dining rooms and corridors that make me want to puke. Because even though as District Four, slightly favoured by the Capitol for being the only on the coast, we live in squalor.

Where people starve and one is considered on the pudgy side if their ribs aren't visible.

Where wrinkles are a sign of prosperity, yet the elderly sit in their chairs and wait till the cool grasp of death finally obliterates them from a world where a government hands away their jobs and their neighbours can't feed them because they have a crying child who has neither ate.

Where child labour is no rarity and is rather a necessity of life, where a father must watch his child be taken from him and buried within the depths of the earth.

Where mothers weep as their lack of food extends from them to their bosom, as babies clutch at chests that shall no longer provide nourishment. I live in a world that has descended into a maelstrom. Daddy used to tell me of times when people believed in places called heaven and hell. Heaven was supposed to be up in the clouds, all lovely and such, and hell within the burning core of the earth. But heavens moved up now. It's ascended from the clouds, too beautiful, too weak to witness the demise of it's fellow friend of the earth, and we can no longer reach it. And so hell has moved up. And I am living amongst the fires and the rocks and the red. The blood and the tears and death who now strolls along with your shadow.

I walk into my bedroom, and I think.

Because although I am scared, maybe good can come of this experience. Maybe I can finally get to know Death on a name to name basis.

...

" – and after the release of the scores are the interviews, which I can't stress enough – "

"Why?"

"The interviews provide the sponsor with an insight. They know you're pretty from the parade, they know you've got the skills from your scores, now they want to know if you've got the smarts. What angle are you taking? What – "

"Angle?"

"Approach. Sexy, charming, humorous, sly, withdrawn, guarded. Anything. The interviews are where the major sponsors will do their hunting."

They are a pack of dogs. Waiting, watching; anticipating the slaughter.

We are the prey. Merciless between their strong jaws.

Coa and Otto continue their discussion, Coa divulging every detail of how the games work, Otto perfecting the art of interruption exceedingly well.

" – there'll be a cornucopia, a massive one, brimming with necessities. Everyone will be positioned around the cornucopia, and at random intervals will be supplies, the more valuable the closer to the structure – "

What I've done in the past day and a half is perfect the art of nodding when needed, the art of being blissfully ignorant to incessant chattering, and the art of stuffing as much food as possible into my stomach whilst lounging in a chair and trying not to vomit.

Tedious work.

And so it continues until the train is bathed in darkness.

What was once long grass fields turns to black, and the carriage is swallowed by the fickle threat. Coupled with an unprecedented silence, the ambience is one of fear. And danger.

But personally, I don't think the ambience is a product of this. I think the ambience is the product of the unknown, because the hills we are traversing through lead to only one place; the Capitol.

A sudden burst of light floods the carriage and the landscape transforms suddenly.

And oh my gosh.

It is crazy. Indescribably bonkers.

Everything is white and silver and sterile, gleaming windows towering one, five, thirty plus storeys. Odd sculptures commemorating crap litter the pavement which winds it's way to what seems like a town square, temporarily broken by reflective pools of shallow water. Housing is interspersed throughout, impeccably clean and new.

Everything is new.

Within the minute, the train has circled circumference the Capitol and pulled into the station, where mobs of Coa-like people stand, cheering ballistically. But I don't know if you could classify such humans as people; their bodies mutated to extreme lengths. One person's skin is a canary yellow, and lining his arms appear to be feathers, a soft shade of orange. His nose is extended to emulate a beak. Another has normal skin, if not overly tanned, yet her eyelashes are extended disproportionality, and her lips are encrusted with jewels. Coa ushers us to the door, pushing us into a mob of colours and lights and cameras which pulse and throb and ask questions and scream my name as if they know me.

But they don't.

Steadily, Otto and I move forward, and to my delight, I can see that Otto is as uncomfortable as I. With several shoves we make our way into what I am told is the training centre, where the tributes shall both stay and train, each with a floor of their own. Naturally, we are the forth floor from ground level. As we enter the room, we are once again greeted by the sight of lavish furnishings, and it disgusts me how I have already lost what sense of surprise that I once possessed upon the seeing of anything Capitol-made. Coa talks. Again.

"Otto, your room to the left, Margaret -"

"Mags," I shout.

"To the right. Kitchen down the hall, dining room across, go shower, bathe and I shall see you in the living room in half hour. In following years each pair of tributes shall have a mentor that is a previous victor from their District, however as this is the first year, your escorts shall be your mentors. Debrief and strategy talk tonight. Do not be late."

I breathe.

Two days ago I was swimming.

One day ago I was told I was going to die.

Half an hour ago I stepped off a train into the Capitol.

Now, I am told that we are to start the games before setting foot into an arena.

I breathe.

I breathe.

I breathe.

Because in half an hour I shall be thinking of how to get back to District Four in one piece.

In one day I shall figure out how to live.

And in two days, I may not be able to run. Nor swim. Or jump or skip or laugh or blink.

In two days, I may not be able to breathe.

...

If one thing good is to be said of the Capitol, it is that they can cook up a mean feast. I shovel more of some orange coloured stew that looks real mangy but is a taste bud's delight, into my mouth, nodding when Coa looks at me and making a mental checklist. Coa has introduced several strategies to Otto and I, the three being

a) Form an alliance and bounce off each other's strengths

b) Gather a group of people from a range of District's to utilise strengths

c) Go our separate ways.

So that's Coa's list. The translation?

a) Form an alliance with Mags cos she won't need to eat much, she can carry stuff for Otto and be used ultimately as a distraction when dangers present. She's also pretty easy to kill.

b) Present yourself to others as a caring brotherly figure, effectively using the others for their knowledge and skills and blindsiding them once a knife is in Otto's hands.

c) Ditch Mags. God knows you'd be better off.

So strategy and debrief is going real well. Exceptional. So Coa? When Otto gets out of the arena, make sure to shower him in praises and give him lots of little Otto's and Coa's so that the legacy of ditch the weak and glorify the strong may continue. And what a truly inspirational legacy it is.

...

The first night in the Capitol is odd. In some aspects, it is though I have already met my abrupt demise and transcended into some heavenly place where mattress' no longer have potato sized lumps and colonies of mites. The blankets are thick and warm, the clothes too. And the shower. Oh the shower! At home, a shower was a bucket of cold water thrown over your head. But here? Cue continuous stream of warm water and soap and smelly stuff.

Yet this is also my first night away from home. Sleeping by myself away from the dorm of the orphanage I had stayed in for the past three years, lulled no longer by waves but by the cacophony of the Capitol. And I don't like it.

...

I am awaken at three in the morning. The glowing digits on the clock beside me pronounce so, however my brain fails to comprehend as such as Coa shakes me.

"Come on … come on … wake up!"

Wake me up at six and I'll give you a bit of the stink eye.

"Hurry up!"

Wake me up at five and I'll give you a glare and a few grumbles.

"We're behind schedule already, wake up!"

Wake me up at four and I'll give you a nice shove and a few mumbled expletives.

"For goodness sakes girl!"

Wake me up at three? Well no one has yet been as courageous as that.

"Margaret!"

I'm awake.

I quickly stand and race towards the door under Coa's shocked expression concerning my sudden alertness, grabbing the clothes I had placed on the dresser the previous day in the process. Before exiting the room I lock the door, watching as Coa slowly turns towards me. Gosh her reflexes are pathetic.

"What did'a say 'bout the name, Linthy?"

And with that I slam the door close.

...

Breakfast is delightful. Avoxes parade through the kitchen to the dining room holding platters of eggs, bacon, toast, tomato and onions, cereals and fish, along with oddly coloured juices. Otto is, surprisingly, a quiet eater, and both him and his bruised balls keep to themselves the duration of the meal. That is until, of course, he asks where Coa is.

"I don't know," I say through a mouthful of cereal.

I am in no way prepared to surrender the little peace I have established.

Otto grins.

"You sure?"

"Positive," I deadpan.

Otto waits a short moment before continuing.

"Oh, well I just thought I heard some sounds earlier this morning when I passed your room."  
I look at him.

"Yeah well I heard some sounds when I passed your room too. Even I don't fart that bad."

It is true. I have established somewhat of an unfortunate reputation at the orphanage due to my weak pelvic muscles, but Otto, boy! He could square up against Matron!

Otto cracks a smile.

"I was talking about you locking Coa up."

I remain silent.

"Not bad," he remarks.

And I am momentarily filled with a sense of pride and power.

...

After breakfast, Otto and I retreat to the living area, slumping on the lounge and flicking through television channels whilst laughing at the absurdity of the themes. We share stories about home and discuss the differences we do and don't like about the Capitol from District Four. It's not all hugs and kiss' and monumental opinion changes where I figure out that underneath the brawn, Otto's a sweet guy, but I do have a good time. Because Otto is the only one here that understands what it's like to miss the sea and the sand as much as your own family and friends – or in my case, Matron. And although I know in a few days he'll be running towards me with a bloody axe, I'm content, and for the most part I think he is too.

"So then we got some glue from ol' man Rod."

"How the hell'd you manage that with no money?"

"Secrets. When you guys go home to play your games and whatnot, we have time. So we got plenty of time to spy."

"So you blackmailed him for glue? Why not lollies or something?"

"Lollies aren't long lasting. Matron pulling faces all day because we'd glued sand to her toothbrush? That stuff lasts heaps."

It was good, the first time I'd felt complacent since arriving in the Capitol. That is till, of course, the elevator opened.

...

"Coa darling! Oh Coa? Your darling tributes ready for their makeover?"

Otto swears, expanding my vocabulary substantially.

"Who the hell is that?" I whisper.

"Coa told us yesterday. They're going to have this parade for all the tributes where they get to dress up. I didn't realise she meant full on!"

I stare at him. We are in the Capitol surrounded by genetically modified beings and he assumed a costume parade wouldn't be full on?

Idiot.

"Coa?"

A shadow falls over the lounge.

Damn.

I slowly turn around to be greeted by two Capitol monstrosities. One has an alarmingly sized chest and an obsession with neon colours, with hair and makeup featuring such shades prominently. Her legs appear to be scaled and her toes are webbed in between. As for the other, he is red. Limbs, clothing, hair; red. Only his eyes are different, with the eye being white, the iris red again and the pupil white. The effect is quite frankly, terrifying.

"Uhh, Hi," I say.

"Where Coa?" The colourful one questions.

"Uhh …"

A rather large bang reverberates throughout the apartment, sending the pair flailing towards the source.

"Oh Coa darling! We shall save you! Have no fear darling, we beat them once in the dark days, we thrash them again!"

Pudgy hands on wood and the hasty scramble at locks sound through the hallway, travelling to the disbelieving and slightly repulsed ears of both Otto and I.

" _They_ are going to be our stylists," I say.

"God help us."

...

The brightly coloured lady, to whose name I was later learn was Flern, inspected my body methodically, occasionally glancing back up to my face and looking into my eyes. I gave it right back.

"Well least you don't have any excess hair," she said, gesturing towards my legs. "The rest of your body though …"

Flern exhaled slowly as if my current state of pre-pubescence effected her on catastrophic measures. "If I had more time we could maybe do some alternations, but for now that'll have to do."

She allowed me to rise from clinical table I had been on for the past few hours as I was prodded and poked, handing me a robe to allow me the chance to salvage whatever pathetic scraps of dignity I still retained. Motioning over to a sofa in the corner, Flern sat down and began talking about the parade and subsequently, my outfit.

"So do I get to see the dress or what?" I ask.

Flern's demeanour instantly changes as she hurries over to a closet, eyes bright and shining. And for a moment I forget about the Hunger Games and the Capitol and my dislike of Flern. Because in that moment she is happy, and I can't help but sympathise. For it was not her fault she had been raised in a padded cage and fed lie after lie, and such a state of obliviousness would be expected as consequence.

And I am resolved.

To be appreciative towards her in my final days – because Flern's expertise may just get me an extra loaf of bread, or whatever. So I'm resolute …

Until I see the dress.

...

Both Flern and I stare into the mirror at the gown that currently hangs of my frame. I think we're making some ultimate Panem history here, because for the first time in yonks, two people from the Capitol and a District respectively are agreeing on something.

The dress is a nice colour. And it fits like a glove … It's uh, highly creative and original. AND …

That's all I got.

The dress has a cerulean coloured bodice of a shiny material Flern tells me is taffeta. Obviously, she had envisioned having a little more to work with in the chest department, what with the plunging neckline that dips to my waist.

But it's the waist down that's the real problem.

Tulle.

Bright blue tulle.

And a helluva lot of it.

Flern tell's me it's meant to emulate the fishing nets of our district. It doesn't.

When Otto and I were flicking through the TV earlier today, we found this show called ' _My big fat gypsy wedding_ '. It was about these Capitol people who had weddings that were like those of these gypsies from heaps of years ago. Anyway these ladies had massive skirts, each with a circumference of at least two metres.

I reckon mine's bordering three.

By now, even Flern is beginning to frown.

"This won't do."

I nod. It really won't.

"Do you have any shells or fishing net?" I muse.

"Course. Had to have some inspiration."

"How about sprinklers?"

"Huh?"

But I'm not listening anymore.

Because I have an idea.


	4. Chapter 4

I feel like a fish.

Back home, we have big fish markets every Sunday. The fish mongers each have massive buckets of water in which they keep their fish, alive, before they skillet them and whack them into an ice tray so you can buy them. If you erase the skillet part and put that at the end of the process, you've pretty much got my situation.

At the moment, me and my fellow fishes are in the water buckets – a large rectangular room that extends to an overhand, through which is a large concrete aisle, for lack of a better word. And we are awaiting the scrutiny of the Capitol, awaiting to be displayed and flaunted like the fish to buy.

When I end up in the water bucket, the first thing I see is Otto.

And I thank my lucky stars that I ended up with Flern instead of his stylist, Verniin.

Otto's reaction when he sees me is different.

"Oh heck."

And upon seeing Otto's costume, little else comes to my mind either.

Verniin seems to have found some sand and glue – and that's all Otto's wearing with the exception of an incredibly large shell and some of that tulle covering his nether region. It seems Verniin is extremely proud of his accomplishment, however even Coa, whom I would classify as being the very definition of Capitol eccentricity, seems to be holding a dislike towards the costume, what with her patronising expression and fleeting eyes that try to look at everyone but Otto. And when her eyes land on me, she wears an expression of pure happiness and relief – one that I highly doubt I will see again.

"Oh, Margaret – "

"Mags."

" – you look stunning."

Coa smiles and her eyes go soft for a minute, and I know she's being genuine.

"Thank you Miss Linth," I say with sincerity, and her smile brightens considerably. I may have just secured a get out off jail free card for this morning's debacle.

Otto sidles up next to me.

"Wanna trade stylists for tomorrow."

I grin, taking in his pleading eyes and serious expression.

"Why? You're rocking that whole just-been-breadcrumbed look. And as for the shell; you'll send hundreds swoooon-ing."  
He grimaces. "Not the look I was going for."

"You should have seen mine before."

"What do you mean?"  
And so I describe the previous monstrosity that would have sent me to my deathbed. Otto's eyes bug out – and to abnormally creepy dimensions.

"So she let you change it?"

"Yeah kinda. I gave her some ideas, like the covering in shells, but she extended them."

He sighs. "You do look good."

And I do.

Flern and I cut down the layers of tulle, so that now the skirt doesn't bulge but rather hangs loosely, with the front being shorter than the train of the back. Above the skirt is a layer of fishing net, hazardously sewn to the bodice and covered instead by chiffon that gives the appearance of rippling water.

The bodice is still a cerulean taffeta, however the once revealing dip that exposed the majority of my torso is now covered in shells; big ones and small ones, ones of elegant simplicity and others of intricacy. Some are even woven into my hair, which for the most part is down. The shells are attached to the leftover tulle that Flern has sewn not only over my torso, but also my arms and neck, creating an effect of uneven edges that is surprisingly likeable.

But that's what District four is; it is the water and the waves that present the possibility of the unknown. The beautiful surface of shells and calm water that shelter the choppy seas and poison barbs of venomous fauna, of which the rainbow of fish and utter beauty abide within. It is a cacophony of pretences, both positive and negative. And in that aspect, District Four is an emulation of the Capitol. Cue the tulle. The ridiculous taffeta.

There is one thing to District Four though that will never be compared to the Capitol, nor any other district. Beauty.

Not materialistic, but the natural beauty of the water, the beauty of a District united in one love, the beauty of a District who rose from the ashes not necessarily triumphant, but with their dignity and dreams still intact. We are the District that the Capitol could grab no full hold on – for we are the water. And as anyone knows, the water shall always quench the flames.

So on the back of the skirt are small sprinklers and hoses – minute and only visible to the expectant eye, and they shall spray jets of water. And in one form or another, I shall rebel against the Capitol as I parade down that stretch of concrete. Because District Four is the District of water, and I am part of that. And nothing the Capitol does can take that away.

...

A loud voice reverberates through the enclosure as everyone grips their chariots, introducing the concept of the parade. All the stylists and escorts have already left the enclosure to watch the event, leaving us only in the presence of a selection of heavily armed peacekeepers. I glance around me nonchalantly, taking into account each District's costumes. I'm not stupid – I know what this parade is. A demonstration of the Capitol's power and how they have control over us in all aspects, even in matters trivial enough as fashion. But to us tributes? We already know that. What this parade is for is to get sponsors; the most. From what I can see, it looks as the One have got that down pat. Both tributes are sheathed in crystal and lace, creating an angelic appearance that will no doubt capture the heart of any soft-hearted Capitol-ee. The tributes from two appeal to a much different audience, no doubt the one eager for fame subsequent of a win. Each has slipped into black leotards with large rocks attached. Although not necessarily 'amazing', their expressions of determination and, for lack of a better phrase, 'we-will-kill-you' convey their intentions. Other district's, however are just plain pitiful. Take 10 – livestock. Dressed as cows. Nice.

The voice pauses for dramatic effect, before calling to the audience;

"District One!"

The shimmering pair glide forward into a screaming crowd, waving and kissing and sucking up. I look up to Otto.

"You want to appear united or separate?"

"What?"

Gosh he's thick.

District Two roll out.

"Do you want to appear as one unit or separate individuals?"

"I don't care," he says, "as long as we don't do that."

He's referring to District three who have just rolled out, copying District one and two for the most part and waving like lunatics with big grins.

"Don't worry," I reply, because there is nothing to grin about.

"District Four!"

Otto and I burst into the light of the parade ground, greeted by a short silence before the crowd explodes into a cacophony of cheers. Otto was playing his part well, sending suggestive winks into the audience and long kisses, but me? I was different. I was reformed and resolute. Because the Capitol owned so much of me, yet just because they owned my fate, didn't mean they owned my decisions. I was not going to play their game, consequences be damned. So I looked ahead. Fixed a steely gaze on the large podium four hundred metres away, ignorant to the shouts and screams of my name. And my dress rippled and the sprinklers attached let out jets of water and the wind whipped through my hair, but no hold did it find because in that moment I was emancipated. I was rebellious. For water is uncontrollable, unpredictable. And I was the water; the water was me.

...

Coa knocks on my door before bounding in. No doubt that bulge in her pocket is a spare key.

"Up and at them Miss! We've got lots, lots, lots to do."

One 'lot' would be sufficient, Coa, especially at such an ungodly hour after last nights festivities. After we had reached the end of the stretch, the creepy man from the television commercial who told us originally about the Hunger Games stood up from a throne of sorts and gave a heart warming speech concerning our imminent deaths. Up close, it was obvious that he was quite young, no older than eighteen at most. However as such didn't absolve my fears, as for one to hold power in the Capitol usually meant they were cunning, manipulative and dangerous. Yet for the man to be still a teenager; my imagination can only begin to comprehend the sick and twisted way his brain worked.

"You ready, Mags?"

I smile, actually smile, because Coa got it right.

"I'll see you in the dining room in ten. Today's your first day of training, so I had Flern hang up some garments in your wardrobe," she says before she leaves.

With extreme tentativeness, I roll out of bed and approach the door, as one would if they had known a serial killer was lurking behind the two oak doors of their wardrobe. For despite Flern's finesse in creation, her imagination is severely lacking in terms of fashion. The door squeaks as I pull it open, and I see pink. Hot pink. A lot of hot pink.

I pick a pair of pants up and hold them against me in front of the mirror, before throwing them back into the pile with disgust. There were feathers down the sides of the pants. Pink feathers; as if Flern had delved into her dress up box and attached a feather boa to the side.

Otto hollers from his room, adjacent to mine, "Coa, I don't have any clothes!"

"Don't worry, Otto! Verniin's just fixing some measurements. Come eat breakfast and they'll be done by the time your finished."

The peaceful silence once again regains it's dominance of the apartment, but not in my head. For my head is ticking, whizzing, fizzling. And as Otto stomps past my room, I know what to do.

...

"Why Mags! You're actually here on time!" Coa beams as I sit down at the table. I know she intended the statement as a compliment, yet I still have to bite my lip from scowling at her. Instead I busy myself with breakfast, heaping food onto my plate without a second glance.

"Where'd you get those clothes?" Otto grunts from the seat opposite, indicating to the garb I'm currently wearing; a loose black t-shirt that skirted my knees but now rests at my hips credit to some haphazard cutting skills, and a red pair of shorts that have been hacked in a similar fashion. I shrug.

"Wardrobe," I say through a mouthful of toast.

Otto looks at me for a few more seconds before shrugging as well and turning his attention back to his plate.

His brain is the size of a peanut.

For wasn't entirely incorrect in saying my clothes were sourced from a wardrobe, because they were. Just not the wardrobe he's thinking of.

"Speaking of clothes, Otto," Coa begins, "You'd better go get changed. Training starts in forty five minutes, and you don't want to be the last ones there!"

Otto merely nods before scarfing down the rest of his breakfast and heading to his bedroom.

"Now Miss Mags, are you excited for training?"

I heap another forkful of eggs into my mouth.

"Nope."

Because I honestly see no excitement in preparing for your deathbed. To my surprise, Coa merely nods before turning her attention back to her coffee, swishing it around the sides. It's moments like these that she looks almost normal, and I can think of her as a friend trying to help rather than one preparing me for the slaughter.

"What're you good at, Mags?

"What?"

"What are you good at? At home. You ever used a knife for fish, any weaponry, camouflage?"

"Uh … I can make a mean fish hook."

Still gazing into her coffee, she smiles. And I think that without all the capitol eccentricities, Coa could be beautiful.

"Do me a favour in training; make lots of fish hooks. You want everyone to know your strengths; it will increase your chances of good allies, and also strike a little fear in others – if you're so competent in a certain aspect and their not. You got it?"

Although, personally, I think it's crappy advice, I still treasure it. Maybe, just maybe, Coa isn't that bad.

"Yeah, I got it. Thanks, Coa."

And then he screams.

...

"What the hell is this!?"

His eyes are wild, bulging out, and hair unkempt, credit to the constant motions of his hands as he attempts to pull it out.

"What was he thinking!?"

By 'he', Otto is referring to Verniin. And the subject of Otto's rage?

A wardrobe full of hot pink, feathers, sequins and glitter.

Coa is spluttering, on the verge of hyperventilating as her arms flail and she delves into every draw as to find a suitable attire for Otto.

"Well are they your size? Maybe the were meant for Margaret!"

I would pick her up, but then I'd disrupt the show.

"But they fit Coa! They would be massive on Mags!"

I hide a smirk and thank the inventors of lycra and the philopshy of one size fits all.

Coa groans and races out into the hallway, returning a minute later with a phone clamped to her ear. Verniin's high pitched voice can be heard shrieking through the device.

"What do you mean pink! I had black and blue and red! Masculine colours, Coa! Masculine!"

"Well there it's not in the cupboard Verniin, it's all Malibu Barbie!"  
"What do we do then?"

Coa lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Send up some new clothes!"

There is a short silence before Verniin talks again, this time soft so that it is inaudible for Otto and I. Coa pales.

"Ok." And with that she hangs up the phone.

"What did he say?" Otto asks.

"He can't sew clothes in twenty minutes."

Otto's face goes slack.

"You're gonna have to wear the pink."

...

 _A bit of a shorter chapter :) Apologies as well but I have forgot to add a disclaimer to previous chapters - I do not own the Hunger Games._


End file.
